


Servare Mentem

by kyle-with-an-o (evil_saint), lingering_nomad



Series: Conquering Love [1]
Category: Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: Everyone Hates Snoke, General Meet Me In The Pit Hux, Gratuitous Use of Nail Polish, Hux's Name is Brendol Jr, M/M, Mild Kink, Pre-Canon, Sad Smartass Kylo, The Force Ships It
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-03
Updated: 2016-12-28
Packaged: 2018-08-12 16:48:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 18,114
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7941829
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/evil_saint/pseuds/kyle-with-an-o, https://archiveofourown.org/users/lingering_nomad/pseuds/lingering_nomad
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kylo Ren has authority over his Knights and the First Order, but he's losing control of himself.</p><p>"Rage, lust, anguish…to the Force all passions are equal," the former Master of Ren told him once. "Each offers a source of strength if properly channeled. Balance is a harder journey than the pretense of Light and Dark, because it is constant. It is <i>maintained</i>, not reached. But if you refuse to drink from a well when you thirst, simply because you dislike the earth it springs from, you are a fool.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The title is from a Latin quote: _Aequam memento rebus in arduis servare mentem_ (Remember when life’s path is steep to keep your mind even).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter warnings: mention of consensual teenage fumbling, murder kink and violence against children. Nothing too graphic, though.
> 
> Thanks to [artyaourter](http://artyaourter.tumblr.com/) and [sithofren](http://sithofren.tumblr.com/) for the feedback and encouragement.

He can feel himself trembling. Little, quivering shudders under his skin, pushing through the numbness and the ache, demanding that he stop, that he rest. He ignores it, focusing on the motion of his limbs, but it’s harder than it should be. He’s lost muscle, bones protruding closer to the skin than they did a month ago, when he was still that _other_ boy.

The leggings he’s supposed to be sleeping in are looser than they were he came here, skewed to one side and offering scant protection from the icy air, which is the point. He has to hone his focus, rely solely on the Force to keep the chill from settling in his flesh.

He managed well enough when he started, but that was hours ago.

“ _Xela kash tave saud…_ ”

(Pain is the fire… )

The Sith chant has grown sticky on his tongue. It quavers on his lips, a far cry from the confident assertion it’s intended to be. His thighs shake, the motion searing as he slides from First Stance into Second.

“… _nuyak silpnuma kash derrijas._ ”

(…  wherein weakness is devoured)

It’s as he shifts his balance to settle into Third Stance, that his body rebels. His legs turn to liquid, caving under his weight. The chill of the temple floor stabs into his joints like skewers, tearing a shriek through his teeth.

For one brief moment, Kylo struggles to rally what remains of his strength, to drag himself up and begin again, but he has no reserves to draw on. He collapses, tears welling as the Dark Side of the Force gathers around him, lapping at his pain – a whetstone sharpening the edge of it.

He startles back to himself when a hand clamps down on his upper arm and hauls him upright. He’s vaguely aware of the aching rigor in his muscles, the tremors under his skin, but he’s so tired. He wants to lie back down and sleep, but the hand on his arm tightens and shakes him, _hard_. A broad palm thumps against his back, fingers splayed. There’s a flare in the Force, not from the Dark Side, and like a pane of glass wiped clean, his mind sharpens into focus. His lungs swell as the sensation of inhaling needles abates and he coughs wetly, still shaking, but aware.

A coarse, fire-warmed blanket settles around his shoulders. It smells of smoke, but Kylo barely notices past the relief of its heat. No sooner has the coughing fit subsided than a cup of something hot and salty-sweet crushes his lips.

“Drink.”

It’s an order, and Kylo opens to obey.

He has to swallow quickly to keep from choking. Oasa Ren is not a patient man. Any kindness he shows is incidental, for the sake of practicality, not compassion. Not like… Not like…

Kylo flinches from the memories of his dead self’s mentor and turns his eyes up to meet the gaze of his current instructor. The Master of the Knights of Ren is of Mirialan descent, evident in the jaundiced tinge to his skin and the scars on his face where the geometric ink patterns of his people have been cut away. Like Kylo, like Irdys (the Master’s other Squire, a Miraluka hybrid with blind, white eyes) genetics and scarring are all that remain of the past he cast aside.

The empty cup is pulled from Kylo’s lips and set down beside the knee the Master has pressed to the floor. His other leg is bent in front of him, forearm resting on his thigh. Oasa Ren’s eyes mimic the stone the temple is carved from: a deep cobalt-blue that darkens to slate when his ire is roused.

He doesn’t seem pleased, but the hardness of true anger is absent as well.

“What were you doing, boy?”

Chin trembling, Kylo pulls the blanket in tighter. His lips are numb, tongue clumsy as the shame-guilt-grief shudders through him, harsher than the cold.

He dreamt of Vanis T’enna – of secret, sloppy kisses and the shocking thrill of the other Padawan’s hand burrowing under the waist of Ben’s trousers. It happened only once, with only the two of them in the dormitory; no one else to see, no one else to know. It was not Ben who confessed and so it’s Ben who was lectured; Ben who was moved to another room despite it being Vanis who came crawling into Ben’s bunk, Vanis who whispered and smiled and caressed until Ben nodded, wide-eyed and flushed.

Vanis sobbed his apologies in the seconds before his belly opened under the saber, blood and intestines bursting forth in the same pulsating gush as the fluids he coaxed out of Ben.

Kylo has a room to himself beneath the temple, closer to the rivers of molten rock that course below the planet’s crust. Back in his quarters, he awoke with the phantom scent of death in his nose, the screams of ghosts in his ears and a very corporeal throb in his groin. He didn’t stop to think. He simply reached down, curled his fingers and squeezed until his hips bucked and wetness streaked across his stomach. It was only after, as he lay panting, covered in his own cooling spend, that Kylo considered what he’d done.

There was something wrong with him; something innate and ingrained that he was beginning to fear was incurable. It was why Ben’s father left, why his mother sent him away. It was the reason his uncle was always so watchful, why the smiles he gave Ben never quite reached his eyes.

As Kylo lay curled on his pallet, rigid with horror and sick with disgust, he wondered if even the Dark Side of the Force could make use of something as tainted and ruined as he was.

The thought of disappointing the few whose faith in him has yet to be shaken, was what drove him from his bed to break himself on the cold and the stone, to be rebuilt into something worth being.

Kylo knows his failings are many, but if he has one redeeming trait, it’s that he’ll do _anything_ to purge himself of them.

Oasa Ren is silent throughout Kylo’s confession and it’s as he trails off that he realizes his audacity in thinking that he could cleanse himself of this stain. He should have come to the Master, let _him_ to decide what punishment would be fitting.

Under the blanket, Kylo’s shoulders sag as he waits for the rebuke.

“And what precisely is the transgression you seek to correct?” the Master asks, studying him.

“I… defiled the memory of my trial, Master.”

“How so?”

Kylo blinks. He _explained_ what he did, how can… ? “I—” He can barely speak as his mortification spikes, cold skin prickling as blood rushes to the surface. “I… took my—my _pleasure_ from it, Sir.”

Oasa Ren’s gaze continues to probe him, as if waiting for him to say more.

Kylo swallows, licks his lips. “Among the Jed—”

His head whips around as the back of the Master’s hand connects with his cheek. The sound of the slap resounds through the cavernous hall, and finally, Kylo understands.

His old life is over. The Master is right to remind him.

“Th-thank you, Sir,” Kylo gasps, eyes watering from the sting.

“Holding fast to worthless teaching: _that_ is your transgression, boy!” the knight admonishes, and _now_ the anger is there, severe and impregnable. “You are a Squire of Ren! We strive to obtain _balance_ , not purity. We serve the whole of the Force, not merely those parts we find inoffensive, and we do so with the whole of our being. We do not cut ourselves into fragments, simply because there are those who believe that we should!”

The Master pauses, expression stern. His nostrils flare, breath misting in the cold.

“The Force is strong in you, Kylo,” he adds and the cutting edge in his tone dulls slightly. “It will demand much from you in return for that power. To serve the Force, you must master yourself. Thus, if you _are_ to serve, you must keep yourself whole. Rage, lust, anguish… to the Force all passions are equal. Each offers a source of strength if properly channeled. Balance is a harder journey than the pretense of Light and Dark, because it is constant. It is _maintained_ , not reached. But if you refuse to drink from a well when you thirst because you don’t like the earth it springs from, you are a fool.”

The Master’s stare is expectant, waiting for Kylo’s agreement and he tenses. Snoke is his _true_ master, and it is Snoke, more so than Ben’s Jedi uncle, who cautioned him against the decadence of his human body and mind, with orders to resist and transcend. Snoke sent him to train as a Knight of Ren so that he may gain strength and perfect his control, not to give in to the same petty indulgences as Ben Organa Solo once did.

“Forgive me, Master, but I… ” Kylo cringes. Contradicting a Knight, especially the Master, is insolence in the extreme. He steels himself, “Master Snoke will disapprove.”

Oasa Ren’s jaw tightens, eyes flashing. His hand curls into a fist and Kylo braces. He waits, but the blow doesn’t fall.

When he looks up, the Master’s face betrays nothing. There is a flicker of emotion, sharp and bitter in the Force, but it’s gone before Kylo can examine it too closely.

“Snoke is powerful,” Oasa Ren acknowledges. Kylo waits, expecting more, but the knight rises wordlessly and pulls him to his feet.

For Kylo, meeting Oasa Ren’s gaze without tilting his chin up is vaguely unsettling. It is an improvement on Ben’s hunching awkwardness as he towered over Luke, but it still feels like impudence. When Snoke touches his mind, he is expected to kneel.

Kylo clutches the blanket to him and glances to the side, gnawing on the corner of his lip as he waits to be dismissed. Instead, a hand clamps down on his shoulder, compelling his gaze back to the knight’s.

The Master’s scarred, weathered visage is as grim as Kylo has ever seen it, but for once, something akin to a soul peers out from his eyes.

“Listen carefully, Squire: beings may gain wisdom, even threads of understanding, but the Force is not stagnant and no one can claim to know it in full. Know yourself. Submit to the Force and you will be invincible. Guidance has its place, but the path to balance _must_ be your own.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kylo Ren has been unquestioning in his obedience to Snoke since the day he left Ben Solo behind. Twelve years later, that obedience is taking a toll that Kylo can no longer afford to ignore.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter warnings: there's a gun.
> 
> Thanks to [artyaourter](http://artyaourter.tumblr.com/) and [sithofren](http://sithofren.tumblr.com/) for the feedback and encouragement.

He exhales slowly, blinking away the last traces of entropy as the vision fades.

His senses are blurred, sluggish, folding inchmeal back into his brain after being stretched out too far.

The first thing to register is the hum of industrial machinery and the bustle of construction in the distance. The second is that he’s standing inside a structural mishmash of technocraft and nature, with durasteel floors and walls of stone. Third, is that a set of eyes are indeed boring into his.

Human. Not Mirialan, and space and time solidify in a sudden rush as Kylo remembers.

Oasa Ren is gone, presumed dead.

Kylo himself has taken up his mantle.

He is light-years from the hollowed-out peak that serves as the Temple of Ren amid the icy sierras of Kuras IV… on Starkiller base. And those eyes belong to its creator.

Dumbly, Kylo notes that the general’s irises aren’t quite the indistinct bands of non-sclera he’s used to seeing through the visor of his mask. They’re light green in color, with tiny flecks of grey and sunbursts of gold around the pupils. A tendril of fiery hair bisects his brow and for Hux, that counts as disheveled.

Behind Kylo, the portal to Snoke’s holochamber is sealed, the ridge of one of the sliding panels digging mercilessly into his back as his co-commander’s long, slender bulk holds him bodily against it. A gloved hand is twisted in the collar of his cowl and Kylo swallows, very aware of the general’s blaster and its small, circular muzzle digging into the tender spot beneath his chin. He angles his head to relieve the pressure, but the weapon simply follows.

Visions are not his forte. Kylo is reminded of this every time he has to suffer through one and he’s glad that they aren’t a frequent occurrence. The timing of this last one is especially inconvenient. His mind feels flayed open, his selfhood small and floundering in the vastness of the Force. He doesn’t dare call on it now, as likely to be dragged under and ripped apart in its currents as to bend the maelstrom to his will.

He doubts very much that he’s in real danger of being shot, but it’s not a theory he’s eager to test. General Hux is breathing hard, nostrils flaring, eyes wide and darting as he studies Kylo’s face.

“… Ren?” he says, and his tone implies that it isn’t the first time.

The details are murky closer to the present, but Kylo doesn’t have to remember to know what transpired: he lost control.

Again.

 _Before_ the vision.

He lost control, and like the beast Hux routinely accuses him of being, he—

His skin begins to prickle with chagrin, made worse by the acute awareness that he isn’t wearing his mask. Snoke ordered it removed, the symbol of his rank and knighthood stripped so that every nuance of expression would be laid bare for his master – for his _maker_ – to inspect. Kylo never feels more exposed, more thoroughly judged than when his face is on display, but it’s a small price, considering the magnitude of his failure.

He was sent to the abandoned Sith academy on Dromund Kaas to retrieve something called the Eye of Tulak.

 _When you find it,_ Snoke instructed, _you will know_.

Well, Kylo _didn’t_ find it.

Even with four of his fellow knights and a contingent of ‘troopers at his back, he hadn’t made it off the treacherous Sith world with the artefact in hand; he had in fact barely made it off the planet at all. It was as if the Force itself opposed their presence, warping the minds of the men until paranoia became more of a hazard than anything their surroundings could plausibly conceal. Within a day of arrival, half the squad was lost to friendly fire. The remainder was sent back to the Upsilon, disarmed and under a compulsion to act only on instructions from Hinath Ren. Kylo was loathe to lose the Zabraki rogue’s particular skills as he pressed on with the others, but he’d hoped that without the burden of Force-blind stormtroopers, they’d be able to make do. That was of course before the accidents started to happen.

Jegrul Ren, known among the knights as _the Armory_ , might yet end up a casualty of the mission. One of the detonators he carried went off while he was inspecting his gear, and Kylo ordered a retreat rather than leaving one of his knights to die.

Like Kylo, Jegrul was human, with a fluency in ancient Mando’a and an obsession with the Death Watch that hinted at Concordian roots. Whatever else the man might be, he lived up to his designation. The Knights of Ren and their vassal factions never lacked for armament, from Irdys’ cadre of assassins and Hinath’s smugglers, to contenders in Zhoja, the Rattataki berserker’s cage fighting ring. He’d also secured a number of highly classified Republican defense schematics, keeping Hux and his engineers well informed on advances in enemy artillery.

Each Knight of Ren represented years of precisely honed skills, networks of contacts and strategic positioning that would be virtually impossible to replace.

Keeping the pieces of Jegrul intact and alive had tested the limits of both Kylo and Irdys’ mastery of the Light. They succeeded in getting him to Starkiller, but touching that side of the Force always made Kylo hyper aware of the hungry churn of the Dark inside him, and the two extremes had yet to settle when Snoke’s summons came.

His master ultimately agreed with his choice to return, even as he lamented Kylo’s inability to prevent the need for a retreat to begin with. And of course Hux was there. Ostensibly to report on the progress with Starkiller, but they both knew it was part of Kylo’s punishment: having the general privy to his failure, only for him to stand bare-faced and silent as Hux rattled off a litany of successes.

The humiliation aggravated the turmoil raging inside him and by the time Snoke’s holo transmission ended, Kylo’s nerves were raw, the ache of his inadequacy too close to the surface. Hux was quiet as they crossed the walkway between Snoke’s dais and the door. It was only when the entrance to the Supreme Leader’s domain was sealed behind them that the general spoke, and if Kylo’s senses are to be trusted, the man, for once, wasn’t trying to provoke him.

Thank the Force he didn’t think to bring his ‘saber, or Jegrul Ren would not be the only First Order asset held together with splints and grafts while floating in bacta.

The thought is distressing.

Kylo isn’t a child. He’s not undisciplined. He’s every ounce as invested in succeeding in his directives as Hux is and yet… and yet…

Something is obviously wrong.

It doesn’t matter how much he meditates, how hard he trains. The pressure continues to accumulate inside him, stretching him thin until sentience winks out and when he returns to himself, he looks down to find blood on his clothes and debris in his wake. Maintaining _balance_ has always been a struggle, but his control has never been this tenuous. Kylo tries not to dwell on it, but he’s beginning to worry that one day the tethers between his mind and body will break and he won’t be able to claw his way back.

He hasn’t mentioned this to the other knights, wary of shaking their confidence in him. They’re all veterans compared to Kylo. Irdys is the closest in age and even she has six Core cycles on him. Jegrul, Zhoja, Hinath – they’ve all been functioning in their respective roles since before Kylo became a Squire. And Syr’in... .well, Syr’in doesn’t entirely count. The Anzati are rumored to be immortal. For all any of the rest of them know, the Monk was present at the Order of Ren’s founding three and a half millennia ago.

Kylo tried once to seek counsel from his master, but Snoke brushed aside his concerns, calling it a natural result of his power, but…

Nothing about it feels _natural_ to him.

“Lord Ren?”

This time, the address is more placating than agitated. Even the honorific is strikingly devoid of sarcasm, sounding almost sincere.

“Are you… ” The question hovers and Kylo wonders which alternatives are being considered and discarded. “... alright?” is what Hux settles on.

“Y-yes,” Kylo lies. “I—my apologies, General.”

Hux’s eyes narrow. He keeps his weapon trained where it is.

“You don’t… ” _have to be afraid of me_ , is what Kylo starts to say, but he stops himself. “You can put away the blaster, General. I am not a threat to you,” _at present_ , hangs between them, unspoken, but heard.

Hux continues to stare, assessing, blaster poised.

He doesn’t move to create any space between them either, and Kylo has regained enough of his faculties to notice just how very close the other man is. Hux is practically leaning on him, hips aligned, chest to chest, their faces inches apart. Kylo can feel the general’s breath on his lips and when he pulls in air, it’s steeped in Hux’s scent – clean, yet vaguely astringent, carrying hints of the cheap imitation tabac supplied with the base’s rations, a blend of standard issue hygiene products and a combination of soldering-iron and burning-plastic that denotes a recent visit to the engineering bay.

Hux’s blaster is digging in hard enough to be felt under Kylo’s under his tongue, flooding his mouth with saliva, forcing him to swallow. His Adam’s apple grazes against the barrel of the gun and it’s with a stab of mild horror that Kylo feels his cock twitch in his leggings.

There’s no way Hux can feel it through the multiple layers of their clothing, but something in his expression has shifted.

“This,” Hux says, pressing the blaster a little deeper into Kylo’s flesh, forcing his throat to arch, “is a good look on you.”

With that, he moves backward, though not by much. The blaster is lowered enough for Kylo to meet Hux’s gaze, but it doesn’t break contact with his skin. Hux has the same pensive look that he wears when tinkering with something mechanical, studying Kylo down the length of his perfectly proportioned nose. When the blaster finally does withdraw, it happens slowly, like a caress and Kylo’s breath hitches.

Hux’s teeth seem very sharp as his mouth splits in a grin. “Oh, Ren.” He gives a small shake of the head, pulling the blaster away and reaching behind himself to return it to its holster at the small of his back. His greatcoat is on the floor, shed from his shoulders when he drew his gun, and Kylo wonders vaguely if the weapon is the reason the man never puts his arms through the sleeves.

“Somewhere in the galaxy,” Hux opines, “there is an obscure dialect with a term that denotes _exactly_ what’s wrong with you, and I would very much like to know what it is.”

The way Hux says it, though, it sounds almost… _fond_. As if they’re sharing a joke, as if Kylo is a puzzle to solve, rather than something inherently defective.

Kylo cannot begin to fathom a response. He doesn’t try and Hux doesn’t press, stooping to retrieve both his coat and Kylo’s helmet. Kylo gives a nod of thanks as he takes the latter from Hux, not trusting his voice. The general returns the gesture, curt and final, and then he’s swinging his greatcoat back into place and striding down the corridor, purposeful and focused as if nothing confusing has happened.

Granted, it’s not the first time near violence between them has turned into… _this_. This strange crackle of energy that Kylo felt arc between them in the practice room on the one occasion he convinced Hux to spar against him, unnamed and implacable, foreign to his experience. Where might it have led, if not for Captain Phasma’s interruption?

He’s seen Hux’s thoughts of him too: the flashes and fragments the general throws up in defense when Kylo’s frustration gets the better of him, when he pushes into Hux’s mind to prove that he can, as much as to leech off the man’s insufferable calm. It used to be scenes of Kylo’s evisceration, decapitation, an endless plummet through the abyss, but now…

_Naked_

_Kneeling_

_Weeping and bound_

Kylo has shied from those images, taking them for the taunts they are, but...

What if… ?

He drags in a shuddering breath, face hot with a variety of reactions too tangled to name. The Force is still a raging torrent around him – within him – but for once, Kylo doesn’t feel as though he’s poised on the brink of being drowned.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kylo spends some quality time with a fellow Knight, which leads to a decision.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter warnings: mention of abuse, sexual slavery, cathartic murder, mental instability and reference to self-harm.
> 
> Thanks to [artyaourter](http://artyaourter.tumblr.com/) and [iamnmbr3](https://iamnmbr3.tumblr.com/) for the feedback and encouragement.

Officially, this section of the residential block is reserved for  _visiting officers_. The Knights of Ren are not official members of the First Order corps, but they are the only occupants these rooms have ever housed.

Unlike Kylo, Irdys prefers to keep the viewscreens transparent, displaying the snowy vista at the foot of the highland the base was built on. An as-yet-unspoiled stretch of forest lines the valley and in the distance, a herd of the large, horned herbivores that inhabit the planet can be seen trudging through the snow. The view is deceptively tranquil, reminiscent of the rare days on Kuras IV when study and training didn’t occupy their every waking moment; belying the deadly gestation slowly coming to term in the planet’s core.

As Squires they had no furniture to speak of, only their pallets on the bedrock of the temple. In keeping with long ingrained habit, Kylo sits with his back propped against the foot of the bed, one leg stretched before him, the other drawn up at the knee. Irdys perches on her shins beside him. They’ve foregone outer robes and helmets, stripped down to leggings and tunics in as casual a display as Kylo allows when he isn’t alone.

He stares, half hypnotized, as the small brush drags across the end of his finger in short, precise strokes, spreading the dark, sticky lacquer evenly across the nail. It’s against First Order regulations, but there’s no one with the authority to make him submit to an inspection.

The Miraluka are known to be an eye-less people, but Irdys’ blood is considered  _impure_. The ball-and-socket eye-structures are there, complete with lids and lashes, but without pupil or iris, her gaze is sightless. Kylo has his suspicions about Oasa Ren and his significance to her beyond Master and mentor, but he knows better than to ask. The Order of Ren is a brotherhood; their vows supplant any preexisting familial bonds in favor of something greater, more enduring.

Hybrid or not, Irdys is Force-sighted and like any full-blood, her ability to hone in on a particular Force-signature is bolstered by contact. As a culture, the Miraluka have devised a multitude of small customs to promote touch between their people and  _this_ , supposedly, is one. There’s no real need for the paint. A pat on the shoulder, through armor and clothing will work just as well, but the ritual has become… familiar, even if Kylo remains unconvinced of the superstition that underpins it.

 _What’s the point_ , he asked the first time he agreed to let her do this. She was hunched over then too, just as she currently is, shoulders bent, nose inches from the back of Kylo’s hand as she steadied his thick, pale digits in her delicate, bronze grip.

 _It’s for luck_ , she replied, shrugging as if that was all the explanation he needed.

 _We have the Force, we don’t need luck,_ Kylo scoffed, sneering the last as though it were a curse, but he didn’t pull his fingers from her grasp.

Irdys’ hair is longer now than it was as Squire. The black dye-job from her last solo-mission has faded to reveal a few strands of silver and turquoise, all braided up in the manner he showed her in exchange for the nail-painting. Something practical in trade for… well, not useless. Not entirely. The press of her fingertips against his own is... nice, undemanding, free of challenge or threat.

The word from medbay is that Jegrul will live.

The other knights left soon after that update came through, departing on their respective craft to wherever they are needed. Kylo knows he should keep better track of his subordinates, and he does, usually. He’s been preoccupied these last few days, and not only because he came close to losing a man.

Irdys insisted on remaining until the Armory’s release from the tank, to be on hand in the event that his condition deteriorates and he requires Force healing, but the probability is low. Their current pastime hints at the true object of her concern and Kylo is… grateful, even as it chafes to acknowledge the need. He mentioned the vision to her, skimming over the details of Snoke’s displeasure and just how frighteningly tenuous his control has become. Like him, Irdys Ren came from the Light, but she’s never been tormented by the pull of opposing poles as he is.

“You do realize that Dromund Kaas is avoided for a reason?” she tells him, addressing the thumbnail she’s in the process of coloring. “There are _stories_ , Kylo – about the people who went there and… and  _changed_.”

Stooped as she is, he can’t see her face, but the grimace is there in her tone. She is not typically this emotive, and Kylo finds mild comfort in the knowledge that he isn’t the only one who’s still rattled.

“The odds of a mission like that succeeding… ” She shakes her head, clicks her tongue.

He knows what she means. The urgency of the schedule didn’t leave much time for research, but he came across several passages that mention the planet being  _off limits_ to Sith and Jedi alike. The documented expeditions proceeded only after months of analysis and planning. Kylo was given less than a week.

These thoughts are dangerous. Too much like mutiny.

If Snoke believed him strong enough to withstand such influences and lead his knights to their goal, then his inability to do so is his own disgrace; not his master’s.

He lets Irdys vent, listens as she recounts what they faced, speculating on the powers behind it. He comments when needed, mentioning snippets of Sith lore and a few theories of his own, but in truth, he’s tired of dwelling on the mission. His own interest vests in what the Force dredged up in the aftermath and in proximity to whom, not to mention the exchange that followed. He’s spent the last day and a half avoiding Hux and mulling over what he must have looked like from the other man’s perspective: face bare, eyes glazed, head canted back in deference to the pressure under his chin.

 _This_ , the general’s Outer Rim accent echoes in his head,  _is a good look on you._

He drags in a breath, vividly recalling the hard metal of the blaster and the portal at his back, the scent of the First Order filtered through skin, the tension of bone and muscle pressing into his font. Worst of all, is the realization that he  _could_ have fought. Hux is not unskilled in hand to hand, but Kylo is better. He couldn’t draw on the Force, not with his focus muddled as it was, but he could have pushed, or punched, or  _something_. Instead, his instinct was to stand there and let the other man direct the interaction… just as Ben Solo had done with Vanis T’enna.

The comparison sickens him, but the Force itself wrenched that long-buried memory from his subconscious to be relived for a reason.

The question is, does the Force want him to… what? Roll over and let Hux fuck him?

The notion seems ridiculous, and yet—

“Either you have a fetish that I don’t want to know about, or you’re not listening to me at all.”

Kylo starts out of his reverie. “What? I—No! I was just thinking about—” He stops. His understanding of Force-sightedness is as thorough as possible for someone with no first-hand experience and it occurs to him that she might well be able to  _see_ the stirrings of arousal. He clears his throat and makes a decision. “About General Hux,” he admits. With all the control he can muster, he opens his consciousness and lets some of the underlying emotion trickle outward, willing her to grasp the gravity of the confession.

Whether he wants to be deterred or encouraged, Kylo cannot say, but he needs to confide in someone who is present and alive, who can give him direction.

Irdys stills. She lets the little brush drop into the pungent solvent used to clean off the lacquer and turns to face him. With no pupil, the direction of her gaze is purely academic, but the erratic twitch and roll of the silvery-white orbs in her head are a clear sign of agitation. She knows about the caveats of Kylo’s training under Snoke; understands the significance of what he’s implying. She isn’t broadcasting. Her mental shielding is stronger than most, easily containing the zephyrs of mood and impulse that are as much a part of Kylo’s life in the First Order as the drone of florescent lighting and the brush of recycled air, but something is bleeding from her. Not censure. Not judgement. It is… warm, but fierce and Kylo turns both mind and gaze away, fearing to give it a name.

“General Hux,” she repeats. “The sharp red one?”

The description jolts a snicker from him. It’s certainly not inaccurate.

Kylo nods, staring at the blackened tips of his fingers. The varnish has set and he itches to tug his gloves back on, simply for the sake of something to busy himself with. He can feel her scrutiny, the questions she’s holding back, waiting for him to elaborate.

Kylo shifts, drawing both knees up and wraps his arms around them. He is a grown man. He is well aware of how these matters are conducted. The fact that he has kept himself apart from them has been a conscious choice, made in service to the Force and in obedience to his master – in pursuit of something higher.

He is not ignorant. He is not  _innocent_.

Accurate as these points are, it does not prevent the prickly crawl of heat up from his collar up to the tips of his ears. “I’ve... seen things. In his mind, that are,”  _tempting? provocative? terrifying?_ “… of interest.”

He glances up and finds her staring back, watching him with eyes that see more than they should. She  _is_ a sniper, after all. Hardly anything escapes her notice.

She looks down and busies herself with the task of arranging her ritual cosmetics in the engraved little box she keeps them in. “You are human,” she ventures. “So is he. I think you’re better acquainted with your own people’s mating traditions than I.”

Kylo scowls. “Humans are not unique in this respect. You don’t insist on face-to-face negotiations with  _Admiral_  Yazdrin,” the appropriated title of the Crymorah Syndicate’s new leader, “because you’re curious about his vibroblade collection.”

And it isn’t just her. Zhoja’s fondness for brothels is somewhat of an inside joke, and there is no other reason a woman as dignified as Hinath would keep that irritating Theelin girl around.

Irdys’ chuckle is wry, knowing.

“Dreadful man,” she concedes, “though it warrants noting that his charms increase exponentially once his ability to speak is removed.” She shrugs. “I’m not much for courtship myself, but if that is what you want—”

“I said nothing about  _courting_ ,” Kylo objects. The topic feels suddenly very daring, cavalier in its rebellion.

_… serve… by mastering... must keep yourself whole_

Oasa Ren’s words float to the surface of his mind and he grits his teeth, intensely aware of the ever-present thrum of energy at his core. He was calm a moment ago, lulled by the scenery and a friendly touch, but the slightest provocation and suddenly, he’s reeling. Fear, anger, disappointment – the Force feeds on his every response, even as it fuels them; an ouroboros devouring its own tail and Kylo is little more than a wrapping of skin.

“Kylo?”

There is a hand on his, gloveless.

_Sentiment. Attachment. Too much. Too close._

Snoke will not approve of this! He will not approve of  _anything_ Kylo has been doing in these rooms! Snoke has declared General Hux indispensable (at least until the Starkiller is complete). He has no such investment in Irdys, and if she comes to harm…

Kylo feels his heart lurch as the Force throbs, both within and around him. Vision tunneling, he surges to his feet. His chest feels tight, ribs too small a cage around his lungs. The urge for violence, for release and relief, burns like ice in his veins, turning his own blood into a roaring, pounding pressure in his ears. He pushes himself to breathe, to focus on the expanse of the valley and envision the cold inside him spreading out like the snow, vast and smooth and silent.

It works. Kylo is trembling, but he feels the energy recede enough to regain control. It is more than he was able to gather in the antechamber with Hux, but the victory pales in the face of what has been lost.

“F–forgive me, Master,” Irdys offers, quiet and stilted from where she is still seated, rigid now, wary of him. “I meant no offense.”

With anyone else, Kylo can pretend that his behavior is a choice, a matter of vanity and pique, but with her, it’s pointless. She would have seen the Force coalesce inside him and for those trained as they are, there’s can be no mistaking the threat implied in such a convergence. So much energy drawn together is a loaded weapon and Irdys, the only possible target.

He wants to tell her that she’s safe, that he didn’t mean to frighten her. For a fraction of a second, he yearns to collapse where he stands and confess his fear of himself and his weakness and his inability to prevent what is happening to him, but he doesn’t dare. Authority is a cloak that still sits unexpected and heavy on his shoulders, despite nearly four years under its weight. He’s never certain if he’s wearing it right, or if he’ll be permitted to pick it up again if he lets it slide, even for an instant. He needs her – needs all of his knights, but Irdys in particular – to  _believe_ in him. There is no way he can ask that of her if she knows the truth.

He spares a nod, sharp and imperious, like he’s seen Hux use. “I should go,” he says, and for the first time in her presence, he wishes for the vocoder to strip tremor from his voice.

“Of course, Master.” She rises, motions slow, cautious and watchful.

Kylo feels something small and flickering inside him grow cold at the sight. He wants to thank her for her help with Jegrul, for her presence on the base, for trying to listen, for the black coating on his nails, for everything. He wants apologize, but his voice shrivels in his throats and he offers a second nod, her confusion and shock clinging to him as he dresses quickly and flees from the room.

He goes straight to his own quarters, relieved to find no ‘troopers in his path. After the losses of the mission, a trail of corpses in the corridors will bring the general down on him and that’s the last thing he needs.

Facing the ash of his kills and the remains of the man he aspires to be, Kylo drops to his knees, fully dressed, and tries to mediate.

Instead, he thinks about Hux, about the vision and the fleeting sense of composure he felt as he watched the general leave.

His pursuit of Force-sensitives for his master to… well, he’s not entirely certain what Snoke does with them. He knows he needs their Midi-chlorians to sustain his ancient body, but Kylo is happy to remain ignorant of the processes used to metabolize his offerings. His hunts have taken him to places where acts like those that flash through Hux’s mind are quite literally  _performed._

Sometimes… sometimes the air is thick with a deadness, a sort of suffering and snuffing of will so long sustained that it has grown dull with the blandness of routine, intermingled with the callous indifference of watchers who thrill at the thought of seeing other beings ruined. It is… it feels…

_Too familiar_

The admission hovers, and Kylo shies from it.

His breathing turns shallow where he kneels, loud and garbled through the helmet, and he holds it in, denying himself air until it steadies.

 _No!_ He chastens himself. He is not a slave, not chattel purchased to be stripped naked, abused, tortured and degraded for the amusement of the galaxy’s flotsam. He is a Knight of Ren  – the  _Master_ of Knights  – a High Commander of the First Order and apprentice to the most powerful Force-adept in the Galaxy.

He is  _nothing_ like them!

When he enters such a place, he does not leave it in tact. He has barred exits with the Force and listened to the screaming as he watched it burn. When he doesn’t have the time for such catharsis, he saves the coordinates, takes the Upsilon up to the planet’s Mesosphere, and fires. The craft is swift and stealthy enough to avoid detection by most terrestrial law enforcers; its weapons precise and deadly enough to obliterate a single building down to its foundations, even from the brink of space. It’s one reason Kylo has come to love that ship. The other, is the way it sails through the black, thrusters camouflaged to allow the sleek, dark hull to meld seamlessly with the void, and when Kylo is inside it, he can wrap himself in the fantasy that he cannot be found, that he cannot be tracked. That he is invisible.

The thought is a remnant of Ben Solo. It shouldn’t still be comforting. Kylo doesn’t care to dwell on why it is.

The Upsilon, like most ships in the fleet, is one of Hux’s designs. For all the general’s sneering disdain for anything and everything beyond the First Order’s narrow definition of  _desirable_ , the picture of him in a Hutt-run slaver den refuses to from. Though, given Hux’s rank and affiliation, spending his shore leave on an Inner Rim leisure world like Spira or Zeltros, is even less likely.

As for Kylo, there have been missions, albeit few, that took him there: into the so-called  _pleasure clubs_ , with memberships and entrance fees and logos publicized in large, brightly-lit signage across high-traffic skyways. The spectacles don’t vary much from what he’s witnessed in the slums of Nar Shaddaa and Tatooine, but the patrons are free and affluent, bound and kneeling strictly by choice.

Kylo never allows his gaze to linger, but what he’s seen, what he’s  _felt_ there...

It couldn’t be more different.

Beneath his helmet, his frown is pensive. He rises on legs gone numb from kneeling too long and staggers to the bed. Once seated, he pulls the mask from his head and cradles it in his lap. He stares down at what is essentially his own face and chews on his lip as he considers his options.

 _Keep yourself whole_ , was what the former Master told him to do. It is yet another failure on Kylo’s part. Whatever substance he is supposed to possess is cracked and brittle, on the verge of breaking. He is too full of the Force and he needs to find a way to bleed off the excess before—

Before  _what_ , he isn’t certain, but the sheer dread that has burrowed into his depths of him warns it will not be good.

There are ways to circulate the Force, make oneself into a conduit of power as opposed to a reservoir. He’s been using pain with his meditations for years, but as a method, it is losing potency.

He doesn't glance at the barbed chain, gleaming on its hook in the corner, but he feels the ghost of its embrace, against and through his skin. It has to be wound tighter, the spines lengthened and left in place for longer, until he is close to incapacitated with blood loss and discomfort, to achieve the needed result. Kylo fears the day when it loses its effectiveness altogether. The Light offers more options, but his Master has warned him against such temptations.

… _As he has warned against what you are considering._

Kylo’s blood runs cold, but no. It is simply the haranguing of his own writhing conscience. For the moment at least, he is alone in his mind.

There are other methods, of course. Higher risk, more difficult to incorporate into his routine, but available if need be. The difference is that what he’s seen from Hux... _appeals_ to him.

Even in the training room, when he had the general pinned and writhing, breathing hard and slick with sweat, it was Kylo’s desire for a command, for some form of assurance that delayed proceedings long enough for Phasma to interrupt.

Hux knows. Hux saw. And perhaps, Hux  _wants_ as well.

It doesn’t _have_ to be Hux of course, but the general too is an attractive prospect and not merely in the physical sense. Hux is calculating, strategic, formidable. Kylo has watched as he molded men into weapons and weapons into behemoths that can devour a sun. He’s even managed to impress Snoke whereas Kylo continues to come up short. Hux’s favor could be… valuable.

In in the event that… should Kylo ever has need of—

The word  _allies_ hovers just beyond his grasp and he refuses to reach for it. It isn’t treason if he doesn’t allow himself to think it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please let us know what you think of Irdys! If you're wondering, we love [horatiosroom's](http://horatiosroom.tumblr.com/) awesome [MySpace AU](http://horatiosroom.tumblr.com/myspaceau) and yes, the black nail polish is our little nod to that (plus the thought of Kylo without black nails is just weird).


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kylo breaks the ice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter warnings: mention of Brendol Hux Snr's A+ parenting and Kylo being awkward. 
> 
> Thanks to [artyaourter](http://artyaourter.tumblr.com/) and [thegoodlannister](http://thegoodlannister.tumblr.com/) for the feedback and encouragement.

Jegrul Ren’s departure went about as smoothly as Kylo could have hoped. A few of the knight’s underlings arrived at the end of the last shift cycle to take him back to his base on Eriadu for the long, painful recovery ahead. Being closer to the Inner Rim, the knight’s seat of operations is likely better appointed than Starkiller. Kylo has never set foot in the Armory’s domain, so he doesn’t really know. While the older man has been nothing but respectful, Kylo is well aware that Jegrul’s devotion is to the rank of Master, more so than the one who bears it.

He was able to, somewhat, clear the air with Irdys before she too took her leave, agreeing with her sidelong mention that Dromund Kaas is a dangerous place and that a stronger Force connection would inevitably worsen its effects.

There’s even some credence to the notion.

The struggle itself isn’t new, but it would help to account for the steep decline in his control since returning from the planet. Either way, Kylo hopes that his current course will moot the need for concern.

Starkiller is huge. Housing well over half of a million people, it’s more populous than several planetary capitals on the Outer Rim. Tracking down a single crewmember, without resorting to official channels should be like finding one mynock in a swarm, though for all his cunning ingenuity, Hux is remarkably predictable. The command station, the mess hall, the firing range and the engineering bay: those are the areas he frequents with chrono-like regularity. There’s his office and personal quarters as well of course, but Kylo would prefer to have this discussion in as neutral a setting as possible without turning it into a spectacle.

The command room is too formal, the range too focused and the mess too chaotic, which is what has him boarding a transport to engineering halfway through Second Shift. The cars are usually crowded, but once he enters, all but the most jaded officers tend to rethink their need for passage.

Today, there are no takers, leaving Kylo with only his own thoughts to pick at.

The staff in the command room project an aura of near worshipful reverence for their general. Engineering is different. There’s no doubt that those stationed there admire Hux, but they have an ease to their demeanor that Kylo hasn’t felt from any other division. To these people, Hux is one of them. Among them and their machines, the general is _home_.

Kylo recalls the night, nearly a year ago, when his insomniac wandering brought him out here with plans to tinker with his saber. He found Hux working through his rest cycle on a redesign of some prototype part for Starkiller that came to him in a dream. The general was as unguarded as Kylo has ever seen him, forgetting to care that it was _Lord Ren_ whose shadow fell across his workbench. He began to speak, explaining what he was doing with a zealot’s fervor, and while Kylo understood only about every third word, he listened. It was… unfamiliar. To have someone on the base speak _to_ him rather than _around_ him. Hux must have noticed, because it was a moment that marked a shift in their rapport from abrasive dislike to a more collegial hauteur.

Engineering is located in a structure similar to Snoke’s audience hall, combining the natural topography with durasteel and ferrocrete. It’s divided into three levels, with planning and design at the top, electronics and circuitry on the second and _the pit_ (as the techs refer to lowest tier) for large project assembly.

The transport stops and Kylo disembarks onto the scaffolding that serves as the platform. Red lights flicker along the walkway, leading his stride toward the division’s mid-level entrance. The scent of metal and scorched synthetics assaults his senses, along with the hum of the power generators and the buzz of ionization, causing tingles in his hind teeth. A couple of young men with sergeants’ insignia on their safety gear freeze at their stations. Most of the droids are old Imperial models, some are custom designs. They too scatter from his path.

There’s a string of startled cursing as a scan with the Force sets off sparks and smoke at a nearby bench. He pays it no mind, following the pull to a transparisteel compartment, set up to overlook the assembly floor. Its purpose is to block out the clangor, allowing for any necessary discussions to proceed at normal volume. It’s in there that Kylo finds who he seeks, pouring over a holopanel.

“General Hux,” he announces himself as the door clicks shut behind him.

If Hux is surprised by his presence, it doesn’t bleed through. “Lord Ren?” he retorts without looking up, conveying both inquiry and greeting.

It’s late in the day cycle. Hux’s great-coat is draped over the back of a chair and as he tilts his head, Kylo glimpses the shine of red-gold stubble on his chin. A few strands of his hair have broken loose from the oil he uses to secure it in the prescribed military style, falling across his brow. Hux doesn’t seem to notice.

It’s almost strange to see these tiny lapses in a man who gives every impression of being omniscient and Kylo takes slight comfort in the evidence that Hux _is_ human under it all.

He knows he has an inch or so in height on the general; thirty, maybe forty pounds in weight, but outside of sparring, any physical advantage Kylo might hold evaporates. Hux is slender, but the presence he projects has a force of its own, filling the room. There is no fear in Hux and Kylo hones in, siphoning off his composure.

He can feel the nervous eyes peering through the transparent walls. He sensed the Dark Side lapping at their alarm as he approached, but when he closed himself off in here with Hux, their tension eased.

Hux’s people trust him to protect them. It’s more than Kylo can say of himself.

He takes a breath, squares his shoulders. Heat flares at the back of his neck, but he has his mask. It doesn’t matter.

“General, I’d like to—” His mouth is dry and he has to pause to lick his lips. His voice sounds reed thin and breathless inside the helmet. _It’s alright_ , he tells himself. That’s what the vocoder is for “… to discuss something that I,” he trawls for the right phrasing “… believe will be mutually beneficial.”

Hux straightens, stance settling into parade rest, hands at his back. He nods. His expression is blandly neutral, but Kylo can feel the flicker of interest through the Force.

It’s enough.

His lips part, and like a confessor promised redemption, the words begin to flow.

 

* * *

 

As Hux listens to Ren speak, his rational mind starts scanning for a scenario that would lend a modicum of sense to the situation. The thought that he must’ve suffered a head injury, or exposure to something toxic and is currently hallucinating, comes in well ahead of the notion that this is happening, in real time, in Starkiller’s engineering block. So does the possibility that Ren has finally cracked beyond repair.

Granted, there have _perhaps_ been a couple of interactions that were less than professional. But Hux never expected them to be acknowledged, let alone acted upon.

Ren mentions the Force again, launching into a terrestrial naval metaphor about anchors and currents. Hux doesn’t follow, but he can hear the younger man’s nervousness, even filtered through the helmet’s voice modulation. It’s there in the way his words collide, tripping over each other as if he’s pushing them out before allowing himself to think too deeply about what’s being said.

Ren doesn’t come to engineering often, or to any division where he might have to interact with personnel. He is also predominantly a nocturnal beast and the fact that he’s here, during Second Shift, on Hux’s unofficial _turf_ …

Hux’s first impulse is to prod until he discovers what drove the knight here, to him, with _this_ and see how hard he can press before something squelches. It’s the nature of the game they’ve been playing, for years now, and Hux isn’t certain that he appreciates this attempt to alter the rules of engagement.

Fortunately for all present, he is not a slave to impulse. Whatever else is going on, a nervous Ren is an unpredictable Ren, and the knight isn’t the only explosive compound in the vicinity.

He raises a hand, palm up. “Lord Ren!” It’s not quite the tone he uses on errant ‘troopers, but it’s close. Hux isn’t sure what to expect, but he’s mildly astonished when the verbal tide ceases without complaint.

A cooperative Ren is novel… and heady.

He peers at the small eyelets in that faceless plating, and wonders yet again how the knight and his minions manage to keep track of their surroundings. He assumes it has something to do with the vaunted _Force_ , or that the visor is technologically enhanced, because Ren can’t possibly see much of anything through the opaque little slits.

Hux understands enough about the knight’s cultish faith to know that a request to remove the helmet might be taken as an insult. What Ren proposes, however, will involve baring more than his face and this is not a conversation Hux can have with a droid.

“Come to my quarters at 21:00. We will discuss this _then_. In private. _Face_ to _face_.”

It occurs to him to wonder if Ren knows where his quarters are, but before he can ask, the knight pivots in a swirl of black robes and stalks from the room, a faint scent of ash and iron lingering in his wake.

With Ren gone, Hux resumes his attempt at puzzling out a way to insulate the weapon’s core without the seventy tons of cortosis required for the task. His disbelief at the Council’s refusal to let him scout for additional sources has morphed into the cold, seething resentment that marks so many of his dealings with the Order’s bureaucracy, made ever worse since Grand Admiral Sloane stepped down. _She_ at least had vision. The rest of them, nothing but obsolete relics of a dead regime, demanding more than they ever gave while offering a fraction of the support in return.

Again, Hux vows to learn from their flawed example and, when the time comes, to do better.

After an hour and forty fruitless minutes, he drags a gloved hand across his face and encrypts the schematic to his datapad to be studied later. He finds his hat on the seat of the chair and puts it on; shakes the creases from his coat and drapes it across his shoulders. With said ‘pad in hand, he steps into the clatter and bustle that is Starkiller’s pulse. To most, the noise would be grating, discordant.

To Hux’s ears, if destiny had a sound, this would be it.

His walk to the transport dock is interspersed with salutes and deferential glances from the staff. As he returns the gestures with nods of acknowledgement, he feels his frustration harden into resolve. He will see the weapon completed. On schedule. Whatever it takes.

The transport system runs on a rotational route through the base with an hourly stop at engineering. As High Command, he has the option to com for immediate retrieval by speeder, but Second Shift has a good five hours left on the chrono, and with no mulling crowd of tired, wrung-out grunts to contend with, Hux is glad for an excuse to be idle for the next fifteen minutes. A gust of cold nips at his face as he steps onto the overhang. He can wait inside, but the chill is refreshing and out here, he can smoke.

Nestled in the center of the base’s industrial complex, the only scenery on offer is the broadside of a storage building. Hux doesn’t mind. It’s hardly the worst view he’s had to endure. Most of his combat experience may be simulated, but he was stationed on Rakata Prime during the height of the Three Year Famine, completing a stint on Lothal during an outbreak of Gamorrean Rot…

Chaos, shortage, hunger and disease: such are the consequence of landing on the wrong side of history.

Resting an arm on the safety rail, he reaches into his coat and pulls out his sparker and battered pack of cigarra sticks. He taps one out, placing it between his lips. With a hand cupped to ward off the wind, he lights up and breathes deep. The synthesized tabac leaves a chemical aftertaste that he’s never quite grown used to, but the buzz of endorphins and nicotine hitting his bloodstream more than compensates.

Ren’s visit – and the subject he broached – has been scratching at the surface of Hux’s thoughts since the knight’s departure, and at last, he allows the door to crack open.

 _A_ _sensual exchange_ , Ren said. To help… _anchor_ _him in the physical_.

It seems ludicrous, even as an hours-old memory in Hux’s own mind, and yet it would explain a great deal… such as why his head remains attached in the wake their altercation outside Supreme Leader’s audience chamber. There was an instant, just before Ren lunged, when the knight’s eyes turned vacant, power pouring off him and making the hair on Hux’s arms rise, even through his uniform, when he fully expected to die.

Something happened, though.

Interrupted.

And then, when Ren’s gaze cleared, changing from gleaming, impenetrable darkness to deep and soft around the edges, his full lips parting, color rising in his face…

 _Fuck_ , Hux thinks, breath shuddering out of him in a plume of smoke as his gaze peers inward, at that memory of Ren. And of course he couldn’t resist pushing. Why would he? High on adrenaline and the thrill of all that power pinned beneath his grip...

Ren was dangerous. Very, _very_ dangerous.

The thought should send a shock of ice through his veins. Instead, he bites down hard on the inside of his cheek to curb the surge of blood toward his groin.

He’s getting ahead of himself. Ren did not expressly agree to the meeting in his rooms and the knight is nothing if not given to caprice. Even if Ren _does_ come, there is no guarantee that his interest will run parallel to Hux’s. Still, born of spite or not, the fantasy of the knight on his knees, tears streaming from those pretty eyes with the scent of blood and sex thick enough to coat Hux’s palate, isn’t new. And the prospect of seeing it fulfilled, is…

Hux’s chest swells with smoke as he drags in a breath; holds it. His eyes flutter shut.

 _… Tempting_.

He discovered this particular leaning  during his later years in the Academy, back when the _First_ Order was still (quite ironically) known as the _New_ Order, operating under an ethos that was more concerned with clinging to the past than securing the future. They were taught interrogation techniques, both how to administer and how to resist. Hux personally withstood more _training_ in the second category than any other cadet, pulled from his bed in the dead of night and strapped to a chair, courtesy of the man who called himself _his father_.

Whether the Commandant would have been less enraged if he’d broken, remains a mystery.

Hux exhales, teeth flashing in a grim smile as he savors the memory of Brendol Senior’s look of surprise when his teenaged self spat blood in the old man’s face.

He cooperated initially of course, like any good soldier, but the point came when he started fighting back. It was after he bypassed the locks on the weapons store and procured himself a blaster that his instructors finally declared their satisfaction with his grasp of _that_ aspect of the curriculum.

Frankly, he would’ve died before allowing those piles of nerf shit to see him fail and so he endured by way of obstinance and no small amount of resentment.

 _Administering_ on the other hand – not the probe for information, but the terrible, shocking intimacy of it; the crying, the trembling, the break and hitch in a subject’s voice once they start to beg…

 _That_ enthralled him.

Confined to the Academy and its strictures, he never considered that a _willing_ partner might be an option. That misconception has since been corrected, thanks to graduation and access to the more illicit offerings of the holonet. Nonetheless, Hux has kept his mind on his career, making do with whatever companionship might be sampled discreetly and what can be downloaded without leaving a trail. As perversions go, it’s far from the most damning among the upper ranks of the Order, but Hux prefers to keep his baser inclinations confined to realm of enigma. His own father taught him that any indulgence, however benign, can be twisted into a liability, and it’s a lesson Hux learned well.

His frown is thoughtful as he flicks the cigarra stub over the railing. The transport shuttle has crested the horizon and he straightens, stepping back from the rails to allow it to dock.

Climbing aboard, he tells himself to tread carefully with Ren. The man is volatile, unstable. One misstep and the cleaning droids will scraping his innards off the ceiling.

As he finds a seat, the same voice that has kept his bed empty since his promotion to general and the start of the Starkiller project insists that the only sensible course is to com the man and tell him thanks, but no.

Instead, Hux sets his datapad down beside him and stares at the frost encrusting the viewscreen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the chat with Hux, picture Kylo using the most pedantic Sith-y/Jedi koan type descriptions, while being super nervous and blushing brighter than Hux's hair. For some extra details on Hux's backstory, look [here](https://kyle-with-an-o.tumblr.com/post/164531360811/ive-managed-to-write-a-thing-and-suddenly-my-old).


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kylo and Hux have a heart to heart and come to an agreement.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter warnings: First Order assholes being assholes to each other. Kylo wants it, so does Hux, but there are other *ahem* _Forces_ in play. Everything is consensual. There is no dubcon in this fic, but they're emotionally stunted, maladaptive man children. They have issues, okay? Arguing is foreplay for them. It's how they roll.
> 
> As ever, thanks to [artyaourter](http://artyaourter.tumblr.com/) for all the help and support. This fic would not have happened without you.
> 
> This chapter is dedicated to [lingering-nomad's](https://lingering-nomad.tumblr.com/) fur baby, who passed away on 11/1/2016 after 14.5 years of "lap writing." Thanks for always being there. RIP smol friend.

It’s 22:09 when knocking reverberates through the door.

Hux didn’t reset the code after he came in and the portal glides open, admitting the tread of heavy boots. There is only one person on the base who would ignore the com in favor of such barbarism and Hux makes a point of reading to the bottom of the report before glancing up. Sure enough, Kylo Ren looms like an ill-omened silhouette in the doorway to his sleeping quarters. The knight is wearing his mask, but not his outer robes, or cowl. His hands are at his sides, gloved fingers curling and flexing; a nervous habit, betraying his unease.

Hux has stripped off his own tunic and gloves, leaving him in his standard-issue black undershirt, jodhpurs and boots. His hair is cool where it falls across his brow, still damp from a rinse in the sink.

“You’re late,” he points out the obvious. When Ren didn’t arrive at the specified time, he assumed the knight had reconsidered and set about smothering his disappointment under a pile of administration. Ren’s appearance now is perversely annoying. Hux tells himself it’s because he doesn’t like having his work interrupted.

“I was meditating,” Ren counters, offering no apology.

Hux doesn’t believe in the Force – doesn’t  _want_ to – but he is familiar with the sensation of the knight’s mood saturating a space. He can  _feel_ the suspense rolling off the other man. Tendrils brush at the edges of his mind, willing him to hear Ren out despite the forfeited appointment. His eyes narrow, wary of manipulation, even as a thrill of excitement quickens his pulse. It’s a lapse in restraint that aggravates him, but Hux cannot deny that any show of the knight’s power is... compelling.

There is a proverb told among the indigenous populace of a world where he was stationed, about a winged insect mesmerized by fire, drawing ever closer until it succumbs to the heat. Quaint as it is, in this instance, Hux thinks it’s a warning worth heeding.

“If we are to come to any sort of arrangement, I will expect you to show more consideration for my time.”

Ren hesitates, then nods.

“Good.” Hux rolls his chair backward and rises. Long years of training try to stiffen his posture, but this is not the occasion for a military stance. He leans against the desk, identitags clinking as he folds his arms.

“Remove the helmet, please.”

Ren’s hands come up. The plates protrude as the latch decompresses and he lifts it off, clutching it to his chest. The look he wears is different from the naked devastation he exudes when Snoke gives the order, veering between defiance and dread.

Watching Ren fume is always amusing, but this ambivalence sits awkwardly on a man of his status.

Hux finds he doesn’t like it.

“I mean no offense, Lord Ren, but if we’re to discuss what you raised—” He lifts a shoulder. “I  _need_ to see your face.”

Ren nods again. There is little change in his demeanor, but the atmosphere becomes less stifling.

Not for the first time, Hux is struck by the thought that someone with Ren’s temperament and abilities shouldn’t look like he does.

As much as he loathes arguing with his own warped reflection in the helmet’s plating, the knight’s bare visage poses a challenge of its own. Ren’s features are all odd angles and disproportion: wide brow, prominent nose, oversized ears, offset by cascades of dark, wavy curls, a near-feminine slant to his jawline and the soft, pink plushness of his lips. The date of birth on the obligatory personnel record places his age at twenty-seven; Hux’s junior by only five sun cycles, yet Ren’s every expression is achingly visceral. Like a child yet to master himself, despite wielding the authority of his rank with more than passing competence.

It’s a combination that should be uninspiring at best, off-putting at worst. Instead, the knight’s features are poised between artless and haunting, inviting scrutiny to a degree that Hux finds worrisomely distracting.

He leans down, as much to break the thrall as anything, and pulls a bottle of liqueur and a set of glasses from the bottom drawer of his desk. It’s contraband, seized from a smuggling ring and better than anything Hux has lawfully imbibed. Protocol demands that it should have been destroyed, but Captain Phasma salvaged a few bottles and presented one to him, supposedly to commemorate his promotion.

He won’t go so far as to call his rapport with her a  _friendship,_ but they’ve shared a few posts, including the fated stint on Rakata, back in the days when she outranked him. The Captain is stationed on  _Finalizer_ currently. Hux will entrust no one else with that command, but her absence is… felt.

“That’s Corellian whisky,” Ren notes, staring at the bottle.

Hux glances at the label. It’s faded, but he recognizes the planetary trade insignia. He looks back at the knight, brow arched. “You know your alcohol.”

“Just  _that_.” Ren’s tone is strangely hard, cutting with an edge the sounds like accusation.

Hux considers him askance. “I’m having some. You’re welcome to join me.”

Ren scowls at him, gaze narrowing.

Hux rolls his eyes. “Need I remind you that you’re the only telepath on this base? If you have an opinion,  _voice it_.”

Ren’s lip twitches, features sliding into an expression that would be neutral on anyone else. On him, it just looks like a pout. He shakes his head.

Hux refrains from comment as he unstoppers the bottle and pours himself a couple of fingers. It’s not enough to compromise his judgment, but considering what he’s about to discuss and with whom, he suspects it’s too late for such reservations. Drink in hand, he returns the whisky to its hiding place and motions for Ren to precede him into the front room where a single chair and a hard, narrow sofa are huddled around a small table. It’s standard layout for First Order command quarters, and while Hux appreciates the divide between his bedroom and the entrance from a security standpoint, it’s a cramped little space, not suited to much beyond storing furniture that rarely sees use.

He’s glad for it now, as he watches Ren’s long frame fold onto the couch, helmet perched beside him as if prepared to depart in a rush.

Hux isn’t the only one doubting the wisdom of this. It should give him pause – if Ren has reservations, why is he here? – but he merely finds his interest bolstered.

If nothing else, it’s a break in routine and Hux hasn’t had one of those in longer than he cares to think about.

“So, Lord Ren.” He doesn’t sit immediately, taking petty pleasure in forcing his guest to look up. “You talked about an exchange, of a rather specific nature. I don’t know if you’re aware, but fraternization between First Order officers in joint command is grounds for court martial if a directive is compromised.”

Ren shifts in his seat. “Technically, I’m not an officer of the First Order.”

“No,” Hux agrees, “which is why I will confess to measure of curiosity as to what your,” he takes a sip of his whisky “… _proposition_ entails.”

Ren frowns, staring at his hands. Hux takes the opportunity to lower himself into the chair. When he’s seated, Ren glances up, dark eyes gleaming.

“Your mind is an interesting place, General.”

Hux stills. He knows a threat when he hears one, and  _this_ …

This is not without teeth.

Ren has been inside his head. What precisely he’s gleaned while in there is less apparent. Hux is no traitor. He’s loyal to the Order, fiercely so, but…

He  _does_ have a few aspirations that the Council could construe as objectionable. And he is not without enemies in the ranks.

A rumor, backed by Ren’s word…

Forget reconditioning. If his ambitions become public record, he’ll be lucky if they allow him the dignity of a firing squad.

Adrenaline spreads through Hux like an oil spill. He concentrates on his breathing, willing the too rapid throb of his carotid to slow. Bitterly, he reminds himself that  _this_ is why he avoids indiscretion.  _This_ is why he doesn’t entangle himself with people like Ren, who exist beyond his control, who’ll be missed if they fall victim to a freak airlock malfunction.

 _This_ is why he doesn’t break from routine.

Keeping a chokehold on his panic, Hux leans back in his chair, whisky glass dangling loosely in his grip. “Is that so?”

Ren watches him intently and suddenly, he feels it: pressure, and the cold prickle of something foreign slithering between his skull and his brain, seeping into the folds.

He jerks in his seat, scrambling to rally some sort of defense. He’s watched enough of Ren’s interrogations to know that the knight can’t simply pluck what he wants from a subject’s mind. He always leads with a question, drawing the information to the surface before he begins to dig – or so Hux assumes.

The prickling withdraws as crudely as it entered, like parasites, pulled slimy and writing from his nose and ears. It’s a ghastly sensation, made all the more invasive for the fact that Ren is capable of greater finesse. Hux knows this from experience.

He doesn’t drop the whisky, but his hand shakes as he sets it clumsily on the table. He looks up to find the knight’s pretty mouth tilted sweetly at one corner. Ren’s deep voice and Core-tinged cadence are satin and smoke, smooth and deceptively warm as he mocks, “Forgot your blaster, General?”

Hux feels the air on his teeth as his lips twist into a snarl.  “Should’ve blown your brains out!”

“Hmm, but you didn’t.” Ren leans forward, unperturbed. “Because you like how I looked. You said so. I’ve seen the thoughts you entertain of me – among other things – the thoughts of my,” the tip of his tongue darts out, flicking the bow-curve of his top lip; a gauche move, but with a mouth like Ren’s, it’s effective “… _submission_. To you.”

For the first time, Hux feels a thread of real fear weave through the anger speeding his pulse. He will not shrink before the knight. “And you want what? To turn the tables?”

Ren blinks. It’s surreal to watch confusion soften the son of a bantha’s features. His head tilts slightly. “No, General.” And here he wavers, but not for long. “I can look that way for you again. Or any way you like, whenever you like.” His lips purse. “Within reason.  _That_ is my offer. But I will not have it used against me. You will not like the outcome if you try.”

Hux’s lips part, incredulous. “You came here to—? Opening with a threat, and you think—? You actually expect—?” He cuts himself off with a gnashing of teeth and rises. Too quickly. His eyes clamp shut, one hand braced on the arm of the chair as a wave of vertigo barrels into him. He digs the thumb and forefinger of his free hand into his eyelids, jaw gritted so tight he can feel a muscle ticking at his temple.

When the world stops spinning, Hux levels a glare on his fellow commander. “Careful, Ren,” he grates out. “You’ll do well to remember who oversees maintenance on your shuttle, signs off on treatments when you’re injured. Don’t push me.”

Ren starts to speak, but Hux is done with him. “Get out!” He turns, intent on the ‘fresher for a run through the sonic and some headache tablets. Then he’ll collapse into bed, where he can sink into oblivion and forget this discussion ever happened. And to think, he wasted a serving of his good whisky on this.

The back of the couch hits the wall as Ren surges to his feet. “Hux, wai—!”

The air turns viscous. Hux’s first thought is that it’s more of Ren’s theatrics and he draws a breath, wrenching oxygen from the cottony thickness to rail at the knight, but the words freeze on his tongue. His legs are heavy beneath him. For one terrifying instant Hux thinks he’s being restrained, but no. It’s simply his own paralyzing shock at the sight of Ren bent double, face obscured by the fall of his hair. Something is… _rising_ from him. Energy. Not sparks or heat, but a diaphanous haze, like a mirage in a desert, filling the room – filling  _Hux_ , coating his throat as he breathes it in.

Ren sobs, broad shoulders wrenching. The nimbus stretches. Hux can feel it pushing outward, but the pressure propelling it is incorporeal, undetectable to his senses. There’s a reverberation, like something snapping, and the air thins as it warms. The lights hum, dimming a little before brightening to the original setting.

Ren crumples onto the sofa, breathing hard, face in his hands. He’s shaking badly enough for Hux notice the tremors, even from yards away.

“What’s happening to you?” he hears himself ask.

When Ren speaks, his voice is raw, defeated. He doesn’t look up. “I don’t  _know_. That’s why I came to you, the reason I’m here. If I do… _that_ , what I said, with you. It will solve this.”

Hux stares. “How do you know what the cure is if you don’t know what’s wrong?”

A sigh shudders from Ren. Long, pale fingers peek through his hair as he clutches at it. “The Force. It showed me. I had a vision.”

“The Force?” Hux parrots.

Ren doesn’t looks up, nodding into his hands.

Hux drags his lip between his teeth. The knight has always been tempestuous. He’s witnessed the odd  _tantrum_ before, but nothing like this. “What does Leader Snoke say about it?”

The knight looks up at him. His eyes are red rimmed, lashes clumped with moisture.

Hux refuses to find it appealing.

“Snoke says that these… _developments_ are normal. That they’re part of my evolution in the Force, but—” He shakes his head. “ _Midwan kash tave akiste. Asha kash tave qo_.”

“What?” Hux snaps.

The pout is back as Ren scowls at him. “It means:  _Power is the destination. Discipline is the path_. It’s a Sith teaching.”

Hux’s lip curls. “I thought you said you aren't a Sith.”

Ren has the audacity to sneer down his oversized nose at him. “Because I’m  _not_ , General. The Code I’m sworn to teaches balance in all things, including use of the Force. The Sith have been wielding the Dark Side for centuries. Ergo, their teachings are relevant for  _all_  who seek to master it. The Dark feeds my power, but it’s growing too fast. Ergo, I need an anchor to keep my consciousness tethered to my body until my control improves. I explained this already, but it’s like trying to use voice commands on a GNK.”

Hux harrumphs. “If it’s  _balance_ you’re after, and it’s the… ”  _Stars,_ he’s actually going to say it aloud. “ _Dark Side_ that’s causing all this, why don’t you just use the—”

“Don’t!” Ren barks, hand raised as if to ward off attack. “It’s not that simple and you wouldn’t understand. I meant it, Hux. Don’t go there.”

They glower at each other, Ren on the couch, Hux leaning on the back of the chair, albeit with less heat than before. It’s the knight who relents, dragging a hand through his curls. “I believe my master is testing me, allowing me to find the solution on my own, hence,” he gestures vaguely, indicating Hux, and himself, and the room.

“And what happens if you’re wrong?” Hux counters.

Ren looks at him sharply. “I  _told_ you, I had a vision. You and me, doing… doing… ” Smears of red bloom on his pale cheeks, even as his jaw juts defiantly. “It’s the solution. It  _has_ to be.”

Hux folds his arms. “So the Force wants us to fuck, yes?” He pauses, watching the younger man’s color deepen. “But what about  _you_ , Ren? There is an  _intimacy_ to what you’re asking, an  _intensity_. I will not end up in medbay, or worse, if you or  _the Force_ decide to bring down the barracks midway through proceedings.”

“That won’t happen!”

“Oh? How can you be sure? You’ve never done this before.” Hux doesn’t phrase it as a question.

Ren’s tongue flicks across his bottom lip, anxious more so than sensual. “You’re right,” he concedes, radiating resentment. “But my experience, or lack thereof is irrelevant. There’s no point in trying to explain the theory to you. It would take too long and you don’t care, but the logic is sound. Our paths are aligned. You possess what I need and—” He trawls for more to say, but comes up short. “This is not an impulsive request, General!”

Hux arches a brow, unimpressed.

“I knowwhat I’m asking!” Ren snaps, fist slamming down on the table, making the whisky glass jump. Hux feels the accompanying burst of frustration like a blow to the stomach. The knight is breathing hard, flushed with more than embarrassment. He squeezes his eyes shut, visibly collecting himself. When he speaks again, he doesn’t look at Hux. “Will you help me or not?”

It’s almost indiscernible; a variance so small that most would dismiss it, but Hux has built a career on realizing the significance of what others overlook. There’s the slightest crack in Ren’s voice on the word  _help_ , and Hux wonders if the knight has ever used it before.

He isn’t prone to sympathy; is himself young for his command, having faced his share of scorn and excelling despite it. Any who require coddling are not fit to hold sway over others and yet, Hux has not gotten to where he is on ambition alone. The Commandant called it _weakness_ , the Admiral called it _idealism_ and his mother never bothered to comment, but Hux would not have persisted in the grueling climb to general – and beyond – if not for the belief that he can, in fact, help.

He is not so taken with his own sanctimony as to pretend that he cares nothing for glory or power, but above all, he wants to see the lip service of the New Republic come to fruition.

Ren is a weapon as much as Starkiller, but unlike Hux’s design, Snoke’s apprentice is poorly calibrated. Hux isn’t blind to the patterns in the ebb and flow of Ren’s more destructive outbursts: time will pass, the knight’s moods will plateau. He will begin to show forethought, even shrewdness. Then a summons will come. Ren will leave on some ragtag mission, only to return weeks later with dull eyes and the bearing of something fanged and ravenous pacing its cage.

Hux has seen such conditioning before; endured it himself as a cadet under the Academy’s less inspired instructors, including the one who sired him. It’s a method that yields berserkers – blunt instruments, who obey only to escape punishment, or in pursuit of trivial, transient rewards that they rarely survive to claim. It’s a way of cultivating brute force without refinement, ruthless, thoughtless and ultimately disposable.

What it is, is a misuse of Ren’s capabilities – a _waste_ – and there is nothing Hux despises more than wastage.

He’s not an inventor; instead, it’s his knack for correcting flaws in existing designs, for combining technologies and expanding their potency far beyond the creator’s imagining that earned him his rank.

Cogs, wheels, spools and axis. Individually such parts are insignificant to the point of irrelevance, but arranged in the proper sequence, in the right combination...

Hux feels a grin tugging at his mouth.

He knows the opinion Ren has of him: a bureaucrat who sends others to fight his wars, a sycophant who will stop at nothing to curry favor. It is an impression Hux has cultivated deliberately among those who have positioned themselves in conflict with him – to devastating effect, but Ren is… _Ren_. Their enmity has become too familiar, their confrontations too charged to remain impersonal.

If the time has come for the tension thrumming between them to find a release, it might as well be an enjoyable one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apparently I suck at planning fic length, but the next chapter is the last one. I promise. This is what a [GNK Power Droid](http://starwars.wikia.com/wiki/GNK_power_droid) looks like. It's one of the most basic models and it just seems like the sort of thing Kylo would compare Hux to as an insult. Smart-ass power-sub Kylo gives me life. So does General Fight-the-Sun Hux. I hope yall liked this. It was a blast to write.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Event Horizon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter warnings: impromptu D/s. Hux is not nice...well, maybe a little. Mention of light alcohol consumption. Not the best BDSM etiquette ever, but not the worst either. They try, okay.
> 
> We have a lot of people to thank for making this chapter happen and sticking with this fic, even through the rough patches. Thanks to [adsumcirrat](http://adsumcirrat.tumblr.com/) and [pockypuck](http://pockypuck.tumblr.com/) for lending your beta skills to this. Also to [artyaourter](http://artyaourter.tumblr.com/), [iamnmbr3](https://iamnmbr3.tumblr.com/) and [deadpetpatrol](https://deadpetpatrol.tumblr.com/) for all your support. You guys have been great.
> 
> Finally, this chapter is dedicated to Carrie Fisher. RIP General Hutt Slayer.

It takes more effort than it should to stifle the grin plucking at his lips. Hux’s mouth is dry with excitement and nerves. He casts a longing glance at his whisky, but makes no move to reach for it.

He squares his stance, fingers flexing around the back of the chair. “What is it that you imagine us doing, Ren? Precisely?”

The knight glances at him. The flush blazing up from Ren’s collar has spread to his hairline, blotchy with discomfort. His stare is intense as ever, but his posture is hunched, guarded.

“I _told_ you.  I’ve _seen_ your thoughts. The ones you have when we’re… ”

“At odds?” Hux offers when the pause drags on long enough to verge on awkward.

Ren nods. “That. You can do… _that_.” A broad shoulder rises in an approximation of shrug, more of an involuntary spasm than a sign of nonchalance. “Anything you want, Hux. Anything.”

It’s spoken like a dare, a challenge issued on the principle that defeat is more palatable than backing down. It’s a choice Hux is well familiar with making himself, albeit not in this context.

He tilts his chin, studying the other man.

Ren is never _not_ imposing. Even shrunken in on himself, arms wrapped around his torso, eyes wide and lips pressed into a grim line, the promise of something vicious and barely restrained rolls off him like smoke. Even so, Hux reminds himself that there’s less than half a decade between them in age, because huddled on his couch, demanding to submit, Ren seems disconcertingly young. Or…  not _young_ exactly. There’s an aching, deprived sort of naivety to him; the needy desperation of the starving and battered that shouldn’t fit with the skulking, wraithlike thing that haunts Hux’s base and terrifies his crew.

He’s aware that Kylo Ren is all too human, however; saw the spark of _want_ outside Snoke’s audience chamber, sensed Ren’s hesitation in the officers’ gym when the chance to establish supremacy was within his reach. The stars knew, if Ren wasn’t at least _a little_ curious, Hux’s brain would’ve come oozing out his nose the first moment he conjured an image of the knight, debased and begging, during one of their little spats.

Those thoughts were intended to repel, though, not entice–inspired by the crudest, most degrading snippets of holoporn Hux could dredge from his memory. It might’ve been satisfying in the moment, but now, looking at Ren…

Hux’s upper lip twitches as he suppresses a grimace. Back straight, he steps around the chair and takes a seat, right ankle on his left knee, fingers twining in his identitags. “Just so there’s no confusion,” he hedges, careful to keep any hint of condescension from his tone. “You’re asking to strip naked and kneel? _You_ , in front of _me,_ ” pointing at Ren, then himself with his free hand, “and have me command you. Sexually?”

The imagery isn’t meant to be suggestive, but the picture that takes shape in his mind as he speaks is electric. What was throwaway fantasy mere hours ago is suddenly possible, _tangible_ , and Hux finds himself craving with an intensity that borders on obsession.

There’s a weight of significance in the air that smacks of foreboding, though whether serendipitous or cataclysmic, he cannot discern. He’s standing on a precipice, readying to leap without knowing what lies at the bottom. It’s impetuous. Foolish. Yet dragging himself back from the edge seems weirdly impossible and Hux realizes that he’s not going to try.

The clench of Ren’s throat is audible as he swallows. He looks resigned, much as he does before a mission to a particularly disagreeable location, but also vaguely hopeful. He sits up, dark curls shifting across his brow as he cants his head to one side. There’s something almost…   _delicate_ about the set of his features, and Hux is ill prepared for the gut-punch of conflicting urges he feels at the sight.

He wants to _take_ – Ren and all his fragile ferocity – and _break_ him, shatter him to dust and see what emerges from the ashes, even as he wants lay waste to all those who tried to break this man before him.

“Correct, General,” Ren says when nearly a full minute has passed. His voice is a low rasp, reminiscent of a confession extracted via hours of screaming torture and Hux is suddenly keen to know if _this_ is what he’ll sound like after he comes.

He admonishes himself to stay in the present. If he’s going to roll the dice in this outrageous gamble, he needs to stay in control – of himself as much as the Master of Knights.

“Very well,” is what he says aloud, as if agreeing to a revision in stormtrooper drills. “If this is what you want, prove it. Kneel.”

Ren’s eyes widen. “N-now?”

Hux raises a brow. “You have cause to postpone?”

Ren sits frozen, staring at him, and Hux rolls his eyes. He plants both feet on the floor, tags dropping with a metallic tinkling as he leans forward. “It’s not an ultimatum, Ren. Refusal now doesn’t mean forfeiting the opportunity later.”

He’s not entirely sure if he means what he’s saying, but it’s what the knight needs to hear.

Ren blinks rapidly. “No. You’re right. There’s no point in—I’ll do what you want.”

When he doesn’t move immediately, Hux shifts his legs apart and looks pointedly at the floor between his boots, insistent.

Ren frowns, but he draws a breath and rises. He vacillates a moment, then snatches Hux’s glass from the table and swallows the contents in a single gulp. He coughs, eyes watering, but the liquid courage seems to do its job as his face hardens with resolve. The glass slams back onto the table, a gloved hand drags across his mouth and then he’s there, close enough that Hux can feel the heat radiating from his powerful frame, sinking to his knees with startling grace.

His form is flawless, shoulders back, thighs parted, head bowed. His hands rest on his knees, palms facing upward. He meets Hux’s gaze through the sweep of his lashes, eyes black and brimming with equal parts bravado and uncertainty.

It’s a breathtaking sight and Hux licks his lips. “Remove your gloves.”

Ren’s scowl deepens. “Gloves?”

Hux doesn’t repeat himself; simply waits for compliance.

Ren shoots him a wary glance, but does as instructed. _He’s trembling again_ , Hux realizes as he watches the knight pluck at the tips of his fingers, working the leather loose from his skin before peeling it away. His hands, once revealed are large, pale-skinned and thick-knuckled. The black paint coating his nails is mildly surprising; definitely against FO dress regulations, but Hux doesn’t comment.

“Now what?” Ren asks, chest rising and falling too quickly to be anticipation.

“Wait and see,” Hux deflects. With anyone else, he would simply ask where the boundaries are, which are off limits and which can be pushed. Ren, however, is a special case. Going by his responses thus far, he’s more likely to treat such an inquiry as a challenge of endurance than share anything of use, leaving it up to Hux to map out the edges.

He holds Ren’s gaze, feeling emotion pulse around the other man. Ren’s eyes catch the light, gleaming like wet stones as he stares back. His breath hitches, lips parting and suddenly words are spilling out in a torrent, running together.

“You _can’t_ …  use this! Out there, when we’re…  when I’m—” he stammers, voice cracking. “You have to _swear_ , Hux! Promise me you’re not…  that you won’t—”

The flow cuts off as Hux leans forward and grips Ren’s shoulder, shaking him. “My stars, _of course_ , Lord Ren! Discretion is paramount. I thought we established that.”

If this becomes a regular arrangement, Hux can’t afford to have word getting around. He doesn’t share the knight’s faith that his master’s interests are aligned with his own, nor has Snoke ever mentioned plans for Hux himself beyond Starkiller’s completion. The Supreme Leader’s handling of his apprentice might seem misguided, had it not been so methodical. Hux half-suspects that the erosion of Ren’s autonomy is part of some overarching scheme that he is in the process of derailing.

The magnitude of the risk he’s taking is sobering, sapping some of the thrill from having Ren at his feet, but he shrugs it off. He has no intention of being anyone’s pawn. If this…   _seduction_ is to be his _pis aller_ , he will approach it as he does any other mission: methodically, persistently, and focused on victory, leaving no room for compromise or cowardice.

Looking down at Ren’s awkwardly pretty face, it’ll be less of a hardship than some of the alternatives he’s envisioned.

The knight blinks up at him. His shoulders are too broad to slot comfortably between Hux’s knees, yet still Hux cannot shake the sense that he’s clutching something breakable. He doesn’t remove his hand from Ren’s shoulder as he reaches up with the other to tuck a stray curl behind his ear. “If you think I’m in the habit of bedding men I don’t respect outside of it, I assure you, you’re mistaken.”

Hux isn’t above duplicity and extortion when it suits his objectives either, but in this, he’s telling the truth. He finds little pleasure in overwhelming a man whose will requires no effort to bend, and Ren’s formidability is half of the lure. He’s also a feral beast, cornered and less accustomed to pleasure than Hux would’ve guessed prior to this meeting.

If nothing else, it gives him something to work with.

Carefully, eyes on the knight’s, Hux begins to squeeze the shelf of Ren’s shoulder muscle through his tunic. His other hand settles against the exposed skin above the knight’s collar, thumb sweeping along the edge of his jaw, up behind the lobe of his ear and down again, establishing a rhythm.

Ren’s breathing stutters at the simple contact, lashes fluttering, and Hux finds himself wondering if the knight has _ever_ been touched outside of training and combat. He’s never been drawn to inexperience before, but the thought of being the first to coax these responses from his co-commander is…  exhilarating.

He continues the caresses and rudimentary massage until Ren is swaying slightly, mouth parted, eyes half-closed, drunk on the smallest sip of comfort.

“Look at me, Kylo,” Hux orders, the unfamiliar liberty of the knight’s first name strange on his tongue.

Ren doesn’t seem to notice.

Hux smiles, releasing Ren’s neck to stroke up into his hair, pulling gently. A moan breaks over Ren’s lips as he begins to pant and Hux’s smile broadens into a grin.

“Look at me,” he repeats, gradually increasing the tension until Ren’s throat is arched, black eyes open, trained on his. “Pay attention. If you want to stop, for any reason, you say _stop_. Do you understand?”

Ren’s hair grows taut in Hux’s grip as he nods.

“Good.”

He watches, fascinated, as a row of uneven teeth sink into the curve of Ren’s lower lip, the blush staining his skin deepening at the minor praise.

It’s distracting.

 _When is he not?_ Hux thinks wryly. “If _I_ want to stop, for any reason, I will do so and you will respect that.”

He waits.

Again, Ren’s chin dips down as he continues to masticate his lip.

“You will keep control of,” it takes effort, but Hux strips the distaste from his tone “... _the_ _Force_. If you feel yourself slipping, even slightly, you will tell me. We will stop and you will do what you must to regain control. You will not enter my mind. You will not injure me, or destroy anything in these rooms. If we agree to continue beyond this, you may contact me via com link when you feel the need. Request a meeting with no subject. I will confirm a time. Do not be late. Do not be early. We can decide on specifics as we go.”

He doesn’t wait for Ren’s nod. The man’s mouth is blood-swollen and obscenely red between his teeth. Hux needs a taste.

His descent is slow enough to erase all doubt as to his intention. With only a few inches remaining, he pauses, allowing a final chance for protest. Ren’s breathing is labored, tickling Hux’s lips on the exhale. Instead of objecting, it’s the knight who closes the distance.

The forward surge is abrupt and more than a little clumsy as Ren works out how to position his nose. Once contact is established, he holds utterly still. There’s a slight pout to his lips, plump and velvety warm, throbbing faintly against Hux’s. It feels good and he hums his satisfaction, fist tightening in Ren’s hair as he uses the hold to adjust the angle to his liking.

He doesn’t rush to overpower as he would with someone else. The kiss may be the most cautious he’s ever shared, but after his protracted dry spell, it’s almost shockingly intense.

Ren’s participation comes in stops and starts, uncertain but eager. He veers between pressing in, crushing their mouths together with bruising need and freezing suddenly as if afraid of making a mistake.

When Hux’s teeth close on his bottom lip, pulling gently, Ren shudders, hard enough that Hux can feel it through the grip on his shoulder. When Hux runs out of patience and pushes his tongue into Ren’s mouth, he’s met with a low groan that vibrates all the way to the back of his throat. Ren tastes much like he smells: hints of copper and salt, testosterone and adrenaline, mingling with a faint aftertaste of whisky. Gradually, Hux feels the black strands between his fingers slacken as Ren relaxes into the hold, allowing himself to be steered.

When they break apart, his own breaths are coming short and fast, mouth tingling with phantom pressure.

Ren stares up at him, eyes dazed and lips slack. A glance at the knight’s groin reveals an impressive tenting in his legging, framed by the split in his tunic. Hux isn’t faring much better, which is absurd. They’ve done barely anything and he’s fully hard, cock heavy and uncomfortably confined behind his jodhpurs.

The urge to push Ren onto his back and feed his prick into the wet heat of that untried mouth breaks like a wave through Hux’s system. He wants to hear Ren choke, watch his eyes tear up with the effort. He wants to drag him up off the floor, bend him over the low table with his ass up and face down and fuck into his tight, virginal hole with nails digging crescents into his hips and, afterward, he wants to get on his knees, watch his semen trickle from Ren’s used, puffy rim and lick it up.

The images are so clear, so sharp and distinct that Hux can all but taste the musk of his own release, mingled with the sweat on Ren’s skin.

“Tunic off!” he hears himself gasp.

He’s always prided himself on his restraint, watching his partners come apart while he remains, by and large, detached.

As Ren unhooks the fastenings of his tunic with fumbling, overeager haste, _detachment_ is the last thing Hux can lay claim to.

Ren curses as he struggles and Hux has to make himself grip the arms of the chair to keep from batting the knight’s efforts away and doing himself.

Finally, Ren wriggles free of the tunic and tosses it aside to land with a _thwap_ in the vicinity of the couch.

The garment underneath is made of a transparent netting across the torso (micro mail if Hux had to guess) and stiff bands of the same dark, coarse material as Ren’s robes, sewn together for the sleeves. It’s not First Order issue, but any curiosity over the knight’s wardrobe evaporate as black-tipped fingers close around the hem and tug upward. Ren’s back arches as the mail clears his head and Hux stares, taking in the quiltwork of muscle and scarring being bared to him.

He’s watched Ren train, sparred against him. This isn’t the first time he’s taken stock of the younger man’s anatomy, but this is… different.

Before, he was sizing up a rival, assessing an opponent. Now…

Hux doesn’t quite know how to define what Ren is to him in this moment and relinquishes the attempt. There are better things to focus on.

He’s never fucked anyone outside the hierarchy of the First Order before. His previous partners have all been men like himself: sons of Imperial diaspora, daring to call a ceasefire in the endless tussle for promotion to play at being human for a while. Officers, strategists, even the odd engineer; men feared for their expertise and mental acumen, not their physical prowess.

Kylo Ren is far from stupid, but the raw strength shifting like tectonic plates beneath every inch of his skin is unmistakable. Like his face, the proportions of his body amount to an improbable balance of extremes, with the sheer length of his torso saving him from appearing bulky, his overt brawn tempered by an unexpected…   _softness_ that makes Hux’s mouth water.

He’s always known that Ren’s frequent excursions across the galaxy enable a more varied diet than what the average First Order drone is accustomed to, but it’s only now that he’s beginning to appreciate the full implications. Ren’s physique has been molded into a functional athleticism, storing just enough subcutaneous fat to maximize stamina and fitness, rather than detract from it. Ren looks good, healthy; viscerally attractive in a way that contrasts starkly with the long-term effects of rationing and food shortages that greet Hux in the mirror each morning. It’s been years since he’s concerned himself with anything as tedious as the shortcomings of his build, but he finds himself privately glad to be doing this first appraisal mostly dressed.

Ren’s torso is as smooth as a boy’s, save for a sparse line of dark hair between his navel and the waist of his distended leggings. His abdominals are defined, with some slight padding along his flanks. It’s his chest, though, that draws Hux’s scrutiny like a beacon.

 _Stacked_ is the word that springs to mind. Academy slang, typically used in reference to women in holozines hacked from Hutt Space domains, but it applies to Ren as well.

His pectorals are massive, twitching under Hux’s inspection. His nipples are pale pink points of arousal in the expanse of paler skin.

Hux reaches out, dragging the back of his fingers from Ren’s clavicle, down along the valley of his sternum. The undulation of ribs and diaphragm stills as Ren holds his breath and Hux grins as he shapes his palm around a thick mound of flesh. It’s mostly muscle, with just a little bit of give as he curls his fingers, blatantly groping.

“Very nice,” he murmurs his appreciation, using the pad of his thumb to draw a circle around the areola, almost touching, but not quite.

Ren mewls, eyes fluttering shut as he jerks his shoulders back, arching into the tease. His blush has spread past his collarbones, all traces of embarrassment gone.

Hux’s own face feels hot, skin thin and too tight. His cock has begun to throb and he can feel fluid leaking from the slit. Even his mouth is overly wet and he swallows, grappling to keep his own arousal in check.

This exploration is about so much more than a vaguely taboo romp with a colleague.

It may well be the first step in Hux’s ascent to the galactic throne (or an early, messy death, but he refuses to acknowledge the pessimism). What it is, is a _test_ , hinging on his ability to bring a semblance of order to Ren’s chaotic power, and it’s one he cannot afford to fail.

Ren, for his part, looks dazed, pupils fat and open as he pleads with his eyes. Hux doubts he knows what for, which makes the sight of it all the more addictive: Kylo Ren – a being able to defy the laws that hold the galaxy together with a flick of the wrist – on his knees, ready to beg for the smallest brush of Hux’s fingers.

Raising his unoccupied hand, he traces the outline of Ren’s lips and prods between, seeking entry. It’s both expected and utterly surprising to feel the barrier of Ren’s teeth part, letting the digits slide across his tongue.

It’s invasive, proprietary. Done for no reason other than seeing the knight allow it.

Moved by the show of submission, Hux pulls free and sets his spit-wet index and middle finger on either side of Ren’s neglected nipple. Catching the stiffened tip between, he massages it in a tight circular motion, pulling lightly. It shouldn’t hurt, but the nail scoring without warning across the opposite nub most definitely does.

Ren’s eyes fly open as he sucks a gasp through his teeth. His cock jerks in its confines, hard enough that Hux thinks he’s come, but no. Ren’s bearing remains tense, vision tunneled. His hips begin to rock, thrusting against nothing as Hux continues to toy with his chest.

“Like having your tits played with, do you?” Hux asks, pinching each nipple between a thumb and forefinger, rolling gently.

Ren’s color deepens at the crudeness, but he gives a slow nod, panting softly through his mouth.

“Knees alright? You’ve been down there a while.”

At this, the knight blinks, gaze clearing a little. Again, Ren nods, chewing on his lip.

He’s still rutting shallowly into the empty air, color high, breathing heavy, but there’s a tinge of…   _something_ – discontent, perhaps? – that wasn’t there a moment ago. Hux’s eyes narrow at the change in demeanor, slight though it is. If Ren has any lingering reservations it seems odd that they would resurface now, in response to a benign inquiry, and not—

… unless—

Through the frenzy of arousal, something clicks.

What Ren saw in Hux’s mind was extreme and still, it’s _Hux_ he chose to come to. Ren might have been reluctant, but he was adamant too, and curious despite himself.

Hux adds another scrape of nail to the mix of sensation, taking in the way Ren’s fingers dig into his thighs, the grunt that sounds more like the slaking of thirst than distress. Ren’s cock twitches again and the deep groan tapers into a whine. The noise is sharp, a little pained and Hux finds himself questioning _what_ , if anything the knight has on under those leggings.

The image of the younger man’s glans, purple and wet as it chafes against his clothing, is inspiring.

Ren came here expecting humiliation and plain, and while Hux is not about to venture anywhere close to meeting those original expectations, he isn’t above offering a sample.

Inserting a leg between Ren’s thighs is a matter of shifting his right foot forward a few inches and tilting until the heel of his boot is an inch or so off the ground. The arch of his foot cradles Ren’s groin, shin pressing into his cock. Ren’s hips jerk at the contact. The sound that tears from him is low, harsh, caught between a sob and a moan. He winces as if it really does hurt, but he doesn’t pause, aroused beyond dignity as his hips begin to roll in small, lurching circles, rubbing himself against Hux’s leg.

Hux raises his shin higher, lifting Ren’s balls on the arch of his foot, toe pressing into his perineum. It earns him a shudder and the sight of Ren’s eyes rolling closed, mouth falling open.

“When you’re close,” Hux orders breathlessly, “take your cock out of your leggings and come on my boots.”

Ren makes a helpless, whining sound and spreads his legs wider, squatting down onto the glossy leather. Without permission, he wraps his hands around Hux’s calf, increasing the pressure as he ruts like an animal against Hux’s leg.

He leans back against the chair, hands on the armrests as he moves his leg in time with Ren’s grinding. Enough to offer the tease of friction, but still leaving the brunt of the work up to the knight.

It happens suddenly, more quickly than Hux anticipated. Ren makes a pained sound, doubling over. Hux feels one hand retreat from his calf to plunge into Ren’s pants, stroking frantically. Not five seconds later, he’s watching Ren convulse  in orgasm, semen splattering onto Hux’s boot, his trousers, one spurt hitting his chest, soiling his identitags.

Hux’s own cock pulses alarmingly. He can’t hold back the grunt that tears from him as he crushes the heel of his hand to his groin, forcing himself back from the edge.

Ren continues to shake in the aftershocks, breathing hard.

Their eyes meet. Ren’s are dazed. Hux can only imagine what the knight sees in his own. Then, Ren is glancing down, eyes darting to his spend dripping down Hux’s boot. He looks entranced, hesitant. Teeth sink into the plush flesh of his lower lip, his throat working as he swallows.

_Stars and the Void._

Hux’s cock pulses again, aching down into his balls. He cannot come just from watching Ren break. He _cannot_ , but the possibility is threateningly real.

“Clean it up,” he rasps, waiting. Ren’s breathing has slowed, but not by much. He’s flushed, curls sticking to the sweat on his brow and along his jawline. He makes a noise low in his throat and then he’s doing it. Hux reaches and adjusts his heavy, throbbing shaft through his trousers. He’ll deal with it later, when he’s by himself. Part strategy, part self-flagellation. He won’t come in front of Ren.

Not yet.

Make the knight work for it, keep him coming back until he earns the privilege.

Ren looks up again, lips shining, eyes wet. Pacing his motions, Hux reaches down and cups Ren’s face. Those eyes are impossibly expressive and Hux can all but feel the man’s need for approval burrowing under his own skin.

He tilts his chin and presses a kiss to Ren’s mouth, barely resisting the compulsion draw it out as he catches the tang of Ren’s climax on his lips. He pulls away, gripping Ren’s chin as he stares down at him.

“I asked you to convince me of your sincerity, Lord Ren,” he says, affecting the same tone he uses to address the knight in the presence of his – _their_ – master. “You’ve succeed. Well done.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is still a series. There will be more. Watch this space.

**Author's Note:**

> For our take on the Knights of Ren and their philosophy, check out [this post on tumblr](https://lingering-nomad.tumblr.com/post/148310796941/knights-of-ren-headcanon-spam). Feel free to say hi!


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